


Won't Let Go

by Psilent (HereThereBeFic)



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Comfort, Experimental Style, Gen, Holding Hands, No Dialogue, hand holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-30
Updated: 2013-07-30
Packaged: 2017-12-21 20:59:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/904864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HereThereBeFic/pseuds/Psilent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is no one, grand moment of crushing realization. Maybe that would have been easier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Won't Let Go

The world is falling apart, again, just like on the news when her parents thought she was asleep, but now it's happening above her head and beneath her feet and on every side as she runs. There was a rock in her shoe. She took it off. Her mother just bought her these shoes, just today, and they cooed over the shine and giggled over the price like a guilty secret. She does not let go of it, and as she stumbles, gripping it tight, she can almost imagine her mother handing it to her in the store again, and that is only a step removed from holding her mother's hand, and she _will not let go of it_.

The Jaeger pilot's hands are large, and strong, and he must be tired but he lifts her up and slides her shoe back onto her foot – not gently, but carefully – and she is glad he doesn't put her down afterwards because she is suddenly so, so tired. She slips one small hand into his and closes her eyes.

And she knows better than to think she is safe.

But she is protected.

-

He doesn't have to tell her.

She's smart, and she pays attention, and he doesn't keep many secrets. Not from her. She doesn't have to ask about the appointments, or the pills, or the blood. The ramifications of his career occur to her in a slow creep and then a horrible rush, at the same pace as they occur to him – perhaps a week or two behind, if only because she doesn't have the forewarning of physical pain.

There is no one, grand moment of crushing realization. Maybe that would have been easier.

The day after they get the final _no_ on the official continuation of the Jaeger program, he stands at the window and watches the sky darken. She gives him ten minutes to think, and then she takes his hand. He doesn't look at her. He doesn't pull away, either, which is as close as he will ever get to asking, so she stays.

There is much to be done, and not enough time to do it in. Not for his planet, or his people, or himself.

He knows better than to let determination slip into optimism.

But she will not let go of him. And that is something.

* * *

* * *

The lab is quiet.

On one side of the room, chalk grinds down to nothing and boards fill up and empty at mathematically incalculable intervals – usually accompanied by the soft _thump_ of an eraser being set down a bit harder than necessary. In that, at least, there is a pattern, and not necessarily an accidental one: it is louder each time.

On the other side, a swivel stool creaks back and forth, and freshly-sharpened tools slice through delicate layers of something pungent and slimy and several hours older than it was supposed to be when it arrived.

The chalk squeals and the stool screeches and the eraser hits each time with a more and more jarring _fwump_ and a larger cloud of white dust, but the lab is _quiet_.

Three days ago was what passes for normal. Two days ago was chaos and shouting and eager requests for time stamps and size estimates and a fresh spleen. Yesterday was a blur of caffeine and data and arguments and breakthroughs.

Today is quiet. Today is a death toll. Today is sleeves pulled down over tattoos.

Today, the caffeine is gone, and a run to the kitchens would bring the risk of contact with other human beings.

Today becomes tonight, and the lab is still quiet.

The one reliable and unrecorded pattern at last reaches an apex: the eraser flies across the room in a wobbly arc, and chalk dust explodes from the locked entryway.

The ensuing footsteps are slower and more uneven than they were three days ago, and the interruption of the cane is louder, heavier. At last this all stops, and a chair scrapes a few inches across the floor with sudden weight.

Across the room, the stool stops groaning, and the tools stop squelching through extraneous viscera, as the question hangs in the air of whether or not it's worth it to pretend to keep working.

No.

Latex squeaks its familiar protest as gloves are pulled off, laid down on a low shelf that isn't made for waste disposal but that probably won't dissolve. A sink runs, because it's too late for arguments to be anything but painful.

Soft footsteps stop at a painted line. One deep, deliberate breath, before they continue easily. Casually. The echoing stops at the chair and a weight settles beside it. Glasses snap shut and land carefully on the metal floor.

Eye contact would fracture it all. Hands find each other and breathing slows.

Tonight is quiet.

Tomorrow might pass for normal.

* * *

* * *

He can't move without tripping over someone's condolences. And that's the word they all use - no one says they're _sorry_. That word lost its meaning in this context a long time ago.

It's all tedious. He's a busy man. He doesn't have time to deal with people who seem to think he now requires kid gloves, and the important folks have, blessedly, figured this out by now.

He's fine. He has a job to do, no matter how much he might hate hearing the title that goes along with it. Especially from her.

It would all be a lot easier, he can't help but think, if he could find some way to make the damned dog understand what's happening. Make him understand that yelping and whining and drooling all over the bloody place isn't going to bring his master back. Make him understand that they're stuck together, now, the only two who could ever look past all the faults and love that cocky upstart bully of a pilot because he was brave, and hard-working, and smiled like his mother and wanted, when push came to shove, to do something good for the world.

He didn't even shake his hand.

He dispels the thought with a grimace and refocuses on the paperwork that he hasn't made any progress on in half an hour. It's blurry and swimming and only half because of exhaustion.

A concerned bark nearly deafens him, and then the damn dog's head is in his lap, and almost without thinking he runs his hands over the white fur of his ears, the brown patch on one side of his face. He tries to mirror his son's movements and hand placements, not from just the last time but all the times before that, and in the torn and bleeding remnants of the Drift, he feels when he finally gets it right.

The bloody dog starts howling.


End file.
